The Last daughter of Dracado
by oracle2001
Summary: Draco Malfoy is related to her, but like everyone else, hates her. Ever wondered what happened to the Durmstrang students other than Krum? The unsociable girl from Slytherin and the silent boy from durmstrang could prove better company than expected.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: yep, never normally write these, but we all know none of this belongs to me, least of all Hogwarts, bla bla. Cyra and Levir (and their parents) are mine, but wouldn't be much without the world JK has created. Tried to avoid Cyra becoming a Mary Sue, but if you sense her slipping into those dreaded dimensions, feel free to review. Beware: I really don't speculate around the original story line of book 4, and my characters don't really do much more than meet Harry and that lot occasionally. And I mean occasionally. Really sorry if any of this is a cliché. Just enjoy writing it that's all. I know I'm not particularly great but I just like doing it. Anyway, yeah – none of this is mine. Except some of it.  
  
Chapter 1  
  
  
  
Cyra Dracado edged her way along the quiet corridor towards a patch of moonlight that had lain itself across the floor under the tall window opposite. She was alone and the place was deserted. The long corridor stretched out into the shadows behind her, the stone walls and floor making every sound echo loudly through the silence. She had removed her shoes for the purpose of remaining undetected, and against the cold slab of the stone floor she felt her feet going numb every time she paused.  
  
This was presenting a problem, because in this sleepy hour when everybody else had long since gone to bed, any movement around the castle was amplified at least ten times, and Cyra, wary of being discovered, was having to pause for long intervals when she thought there might be someone other than herself in the area. The biggest threat was, of course, Mrs Norris – who, despite being nothing more than a mangy cat, was ironically the most lethal thing to be caught out by. Heavier were the steps of Dumbledore or one of the teachers, but Mrs Norris, her orb like eyes often being the only thing you saw of her before you realised she'd cornered you, was the one whom Cyra – through long experience – knew to be the worst. She'd appear silently as a mist, and whisk just as quickly away again, but she'd return once again with a much more virulent disease: Argus Filch, the caretaker. Cyra scowled. Like everyone else, she hated him because there was no way to get round him. But unlike everyone else, this hit Cyra twice as hard because she could usually find a way round everyone. She could flatter McGonagall, and impress Vector; but Filch was neither clever nor impressionable. He was as stupid as callous as it was possible to be, and in all her four years at Hogwarts, Cyra still hadn't discovered a solution for him.  
  
So whilst sneaking around with only the pale moonlight illuminating the passage, Cyra did not relish the thought of being caught, and froze every two seconds at the slightest noise. As she stopped mid-stance, paralysed by a distant clatter, the seconds lapsed and she felt the cold seeping up through her thin socks. The warming charm was wearing off. She cocked an ear to the noise. It was faint and jerky, a sound that would have been loud, had she been closer, but the castle was ages wide and it didn't sound too threatening. She decided it was just Peeves banging around and sank her foot to the ground once more. Still pressed against the wall, she glanced down at her feet. It was getting cold and the charm would only take a second to replenish. She listened shrewdly for the slightest noise in any direction, but now there was only silence. Satisfied, she gathered the hem of her cloak off the ground, pushed her wand to her feet and muttered "Insulo." Immediately, a delicious warmth flooded back into them.  
  
Feeling danger of both Filch and losing her feet to pneumonia had passed, Cyra straightened up, letting her robes drop – but no sooner had she taken a step forward, when a very real and dangerous noise sounded ahead.  
  
Footsteps could be heard, resounding through the echoey passage; they sounded as though they belonged to the corridor round the left corner, and they were coming straight in Cyra's direction.  
  
Cyra Dracado needed not a moment to think – she didn't even stop to swear as she spun on her heel and streaked noiselessly back down the way she had just come. She pushed away from the wall and broke into a run, whisking down the pitch-black corridor, away from the light of the window. The footsteps were still behind her, they were picking up speed, aware of her black shadow pelting away from them. She pushed her legs faster, her socks making no noise but her feet beginning to slip on the smooth floor. The footsteps were running too, chasing her. They were in the same passageway. She felt the slap of the air as she bolted through it, cursing her robes as they rustled noticeably. It was getting harder to see, she couldn't navigate at this speed. The footsteps were sliding into one another with the pace they were travelling at. Cyra whipped past the passageway she had entered by – it was too late to change, she kept running regardless. But her feet were slipping; she felt a snag on the floor. She saw only blackness ahead, but shadowy forms were appearing. The footsteps were closing in. Cyra peered desperately into the void. The pursuer was drawing nearer. She couldn't make out the forms ahead with the rate she was going. Blackness seemed to be on either side ahead, but she couldn't make out what was in the middle. The footsteps were distinct; dimness yawned in front of her. Her heart raced with the hankering footsteps behind. Ahead she couldn't see. She was slowing down. The chasing footsteps didn't stop. She stared in front. Faster. She should be running, but something told her to stop. Faster. Her feet skidded awkwardly on the slab floor. Closer. What was ahead? Closer. She couldn't stop now. Faster. Now she saw what it was. Closer. An opening. Faster. But she was too close, travelling too fast to catch herself before the ground dropped away from under her feet.  
  
She fell what seemed like five storeys, shapes materialising out of the dimness around her. A staircase. She felt as though her heart was still at the top of it. In the darkness, she could have sworn she was suspended there; but her feet suddenly came into contact with something solid, her knees sank into it and she clattered to the ground. Panicking, she scrabbled for the banister, but her legs were thrown downwards, her head carried over and all in clumsy, rolling twist she landed in a sprawled heap at the foot of the stairs.  
  
She was thrown onto her back, dazed and angry. Her robes riding high against her crumpled legs, her arms rebounding painfully against the ground next to her ears. Above her, a dim figure appeared, descending the stairs. Cyra corrected herself, furious to be caught out and prepared to slip away at the next given opportunity. She worked her spread-eagled legs together and propped herself up, her hair bedraggled round her silently fuming face. The figure slowly came into focus. They were reaching the last of the stairs.  
  
Cyra felt the flush of suspicion leave her. Now she realised. Only one person could watch a girl fall down the stairs with so much bitter indifference and walk up to her afterwards with not even the slightest concern on his shadowed face. She smiled wryly.  
  
Here they were, back on familiar territory. Here was one person whose emotions she was still trying to master. This would be interesting. She sat up as he stopped, towering above her.  
  
Slowly she turned her face upwards, to make absolutely sure he knew exactly who it was. He glared stonily back. Cyra gave her daunting smile and said, "Hello Professor." 


	2. Yes sir

1 Chapter 2  
  
Snape was angry. Cyra liked him when he was angry – she always wondered how slim the border was between the controlled anger and the apoplectic hysteria. When he was angry, like so many other times, he used his silky, threatening tone; but she was always prone to thinking what it might be like if he flipped. If he lost it. Went mad – flew at something or someone; screamed in manic rage. She smiled quietly to herself. She'd like to be there to see that happen.  
  
At the moment though, he was just prowling round his office whilst Cyra sat motionless in a chair. He hadn't spoken since he'd found her at the bottom of the stairs. He'd hissed at her to get up and follow him through the corridors to his office, and for the rest of the time the air between the two of them had remained silent. But it wasn't as if she'd needed his guidance to go anywhere; she knew the Hogwarts corridors like the back of her hand – and anyway, she'd been to his office so many times before.  
  
He was skulking the small area of the cold stone room like a giant bat, the glass jars luminous on the walls with their sickly jelly-like fluids. Cyra was not put off in the slightest. The office was of no interest to her, and she was not the flinching type. He was her subject – she was regarding his response to her with interest. His eyes were narrowed and his lip was curling, but he didn't speak. Often, his eyes strayed as though he was going to look at her, but something would stop him and he would abruptly turn on his heel and pace the other way. Cyra's own eyes followed his every movement. She was pretty sure Snape knew she was watching him. Perhaps that was why he seemed wary to face her – most people avoided doing so when they knew the intensity of her gaze.  
  
Suddenly, he stopped pacing and turned to look her in the eye. Black against blue, they stared each other out. He was directly opposite her, and his face was so close she could see every pore on his pale skin. The scorn in his eyes seemed to set his face in a mask of disgust. Cyra smiled inwardly. He liked her.  
  
"Perhaps, Dracado," he said icily, "you wouldn't mind telling me what this is all about; what this little night-stroll is all on account of. Why do I find you sneaking down passages at two o'clock at night? There must be some kind of reason."  
  
Inside her mind, Cyra corrected him in that two o'clock at night should in fact be phrased two o'clock in the morning. She didn't say anything.  
  
He looked at her sourly.  
  
"Well?" he hissed, "I'm waiting."  
  
And so am I, thought Cyra, but don't stop now.  
  
Snape glared at her. She didn't say a word.  
  
"I'm waiting, Dracado," he repeated.  
  
She didn't reply. The anger was flickering in his eyes. Cyra sat in silence. She could almost feel the anticipation tingling over her. Snape's eyes narrowed so thinly they were barely more than slits. Cyra's own eyes remained steady, but the excitement was thrilling. She smiled very slightly.  
  
Snape looked infuriated.  
  
"Something funny?" he hissed. Cyra noticed with a funny tingling feeling that he seemed to be having difficulty controlling his temper. "Dracado, I said is something funny?"  
  
His hands were balling into fists. This was so good. She didn't say anything. Her smile was widening. Snape's breathing quickened.  
  
"I said, is something funny?" he spat through clenched teeth.  
  
Cyra's breathing was becoming faster too. He was cracking. Her eyes bored into his furious ones gleefully.  
  
"Answer me, Dracado." She pressed her lips close. Her smile pushed up her cheeks restlessly.  
  
"Stop sitting there quietly. Tell me. Now!"  
  
She pressed them closer together, so hard her mouth was white with the pressure.  
  
"I won't hesitate in giving out a detention."  
  
Her lips couldn't suppress it any longer. The excitement was swelling inside her, almost bursting out. She wanted to laugh. This was so funny. This was brilliant. It felt so good.  
  
Snape's breath was rasping with muted frustration.  
  
"Stop it!" he spat. "Stop it!"  
  
She wouldn't. She couldn't.  
  
"Stop it!" he repeated. Louder. Losing control.  
  
She couldn't keep it inside any longer. She laughed.  
  
His breathing was fast, irregular. He was out of control.  
  
"Stop it!"  
  
She laughed. Right in his face. Right in his pale, angry face.  
  
"Stop it!"  
  
More than angry – beyond anger. Fury. Rage.  
  
"Stop it Dracado, stop laughing."  
  
She was hysterical herself. On and on and harder and harder she laughed. Violently.  
  
"Stop it!" screamed Snape. Yes. He was screaming at her. He'd cracked. She'd done it. "Stop it stop it stop it!"  
  
She was doubled up in vicious laughter, water in her eyes. She couldn't focus. He wasn't a person anymore. Just a thing. An angry – no, beyond angry – thing; swishing and pleading and screaming.  
  
"Stop!"  
  
Yes. He was yelling.  
  
"Stop!" She threw her head back and laughed so hard that it hurt.  
  
"Stop!" He was in a rage. She laughed in brilliant agony.  
  
"Stop it!" Yes.  
  
"Stop it!" Then the agony was real. His hand came out of nowhere and slapped her viciously round the face. She caught her breath. He was…  
  
"STOP!" …Apoplectic.  
  
There was silence.  
  
Snape drew back, almost looking scared. He had hit a student.  
  
Cyra felt the uncontainable excitement inside her simmer down contentedly. She'd pushed him past breaking point. She stopped laughing. The hysteria had been knocked out by the slap, and the remaining debris of irresistible giggles slowed down into nothing but her smile. Slowly she turned her head away from the direction it had been hit towards and looked back at Snape.  
  
He was looking, if possible, paler than ever. His usually calm face was flickering with involuntary twitches of guilt and other things. He had hit a student. He was backed against the opposite wall, his breathing shallow. Neither of them said anything. She locked her eyes onto his, as the seconds lapsed into minutes. He had hit a student.  
  
Then, very quietly, she gave one last smile. That was all there was left of what had been inside her for so long before. Satisfied. Finally.  
  
She stood up, slowly. Her body felt much less tense now. All relaxed.  
  
She moved to the door, her eyes drifting away from his. She lifted her hand to the doorknob and twisting it softly. With a creak the door edged open. Outside was the wet and cold of the dungeons. Snape was still watching her, she could feel it.  
  
She turned her head and settled her gaze on him again. Withdrawing and scared, he was rooted to the spot, his mouth slightly open. Panicky. Terrified. Regretful?  
  
They were all the same.  
  
With a last, pleased smiled to herself, Cyra Dracado eased open the door and stepped out without being dismissed. It clicked shut behind her.  
  
Another one down. 


	3. chapter 3

1 Apology: I am thoroughly aware that by this point I have already revealed that she has a bizarre name, relations to one of the main characters, most definitely isn't normal and has silent command over her teachers. I apologise. In this chapter we get back to a more normal side of things. She is human, honest. And even if she is a Mary Sue, you have to admit she's a bit unconventional.  
  
2  
  
3  
  
4 Chapter 3  
  
Cyra had long known about the Triwizard Tournament before it was officially announced at Hogwarts. Her father had had plenty to say on the subject, and there had been many people involved with the organisation of the event coming to the house. Undiscovered, and with a mild interest, she'd listened in on snatches of conversation about it, but the events didn't affect her in the slightest. Despite being too young by a year, Cyra would not have entered even if she could (and even with the age restriction, if she had really wanted to she would have found a way); whatever centre-stage limelight the rest of the school might be seeking, it wouldn't have concerned her.  
  
It was irritating to sit there in the Great Hall with the rest of them, listening to an announcement being received with a kind of awed stupor; each face hanging gormless as though this was the most wonderful event in history. And the way they had all stared at that new teacher, Moody. He was strange to Cyra as well, but she didn't sit gawking openly. Perhaps here would be an interesting teacher for once, weird as he might be. There had only been one teacher worth noting before, and he was gone. Cyra had looked at the gnarled face engraved with weatherworn grooves and decided she would not try to find a way round him. Sometimes just watching quietly from the background was more rewarding.  
  
It was funny, in a way though; to hear the suspended silence as every idiotic one of them sat along the tables. So obedient and so easily pleased. It was nice to laugh inwardly and see them all in a way that they'd never look at themselves. In a way, the gormless quiet was funny. But then that idiot Fred Weasley had spoken up, so true to form in his basic way. Was there an intelligent comment that had ever passed his lips? It broke the atmosphere, and things had returned as before – laughing, joking: acting like kids.  
  
But the thing that perhaps most annoyed Cyra, was the way that every single student, from knowing nothing of the tournament, and being ignorant for so long whilst she was aware from the start, suddenly deemed themselves experts on the matter. Suddenly the corridors were filled with the buzzing sound of rumours and knowledgeable excitement. Couldn't they see that they had known nothing until they'd been told about it? Didn't they realise their dependence on other people? The people controlling them?  
  
The weekend after Snape had caught Cyra sneaking down the corridors at night, she had noticed the poster on the wall announcing the arrival of the foreign students. Another thing she'd known about for ages. Once again, people were crowded round it, suddenly taking the authority of knowing everything about the affair. She moved quickly away and headed down to her common room. The dark, low passages were cheerless – she was at home here; to have the phoney joviality of the rest of the castle cut out by the stark dankness of the dungeons was much more comforting. She enjoyed seeing the shadows flickering on peoples' faces as the hastened out of the corridors – aiming for the light of the Entrance Hall and the places above the ground floor. Cyra smiled and kept going.  
  
Seconds later though, she paused, watching the shadows dancing across the floor in front of her. The sound of voices was coming round the corner; the candlelight was flickering into the vague forms of people approaching from the left corridor. Next moment, three students had turned the corner: two of them large and hulking, the other small, pale-faced and scowling in a manner that only Cyra herself could better. The last person happened to be her second cousin – a completely irrelevant fact other than Cyra occasionally spoke to him. He stopped abruptly as he saw her. Cyra remained static, a rare smile probably being the cause of this. He hesitated, and seemed to resist the urge to turn back. The fact that she was a relative didn't alter his view of her; to him, as to the rest of the school, she was a freak – an indecipherable weirdo that was best left alone. Suspicion had narrowed his eyes into slits.  
  
"Cyra," he said shortly.  
  
"Draco," she replied. "Seen the notice? The foreign students are coming on Friday."  
  
He nodded uncomfortably. "Didn't think you ventured above ground much these days," he said. "The Entrance Hall's a bit of a big leap."  
  
Cyra smiled even wider. The bastard edge was still in him.  
  
"Going to be entering?" she pressed, "a lot of opportunity for you to outshine yourself. Maybe bring back a bit of respect to the family name."  
  
His mouth went tight. "Your name is the one without respect, Dracado. You took that name to distance yourself from the Malfoys – to pretend you didn't belong to them. Don't talk to me about family respect."  
  
Cyra's smile faded slowly. "I have no interest in the honour of any family name," she said. "Dracado means nothing to me. Malfoy even less. I wouldn't try to involve me in this little dispute you've been drawn into."  
  
Draco's features dropped from the scathing frown. His eyes were staring warily at her. She knew the expression in them – once again he couldn't work out her goal, and so he couldn't retaliate with a decent argument. She knew he hated to lose. "Better quit while your ahead," said Cyra.  
  
Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Come on," he muttered to his cronies. And then turning to Cyra, he said, "on second thought, Dracado, your grandfather taking that name was the best thing that ever happened to the Malfoys. The further you stay from us the better. We don't want relations with freaks like you." Scowling, he swept off down the corridor, Crabbe and Goyle following in his wake. Cyra gave another small smile.  
  
Teachers, father, even relations – she had them all wrapped round her little finger. And the funniest thing was, they didn't even know it. They thought they were the ones in control of their lives, leaving the freak in the background. Didn't they see she could make them perform however she wanted?  
  
As she made off to the common room she felt very calm. Whatever the delegation of foreign students might bring, she could guess it wasn't something she couldn't handle. 


	4. durmstrang

1.1 Chapter 4  
  
The Great Hall glittered, one hundred candles floating far above the heads of the assembled crowds. Anticipation was in the air, tingling through the atmosphere and rippling through the people, who whispered excitably to one another. From her seat at the Slytherin table, Cyra eyed the happy faces with distaste. It was just a stupid tournament, but every person was treating it like a historical revelation. The foreign students had arrived on the grounds outside, and for the sake of a charmed ship and an oversized carriage people were enraptured. Every teacher in the school had turned out, dressed smartly as to appear impressive. It was all so petty, thought Cyra. Even Moody had made an entrance, as usual collecting a host of gawking eyes as he took deep swigs from his hip-flask. Cyra thought about the man who had been there before him, and wondered how he might treat this whole affair. She realised she'd been thinking about him a lot.  
  
The Durmstrang students were sat at the vacant seats along the Slytherin table. To distract herself from her own thoughts, Cyra glanced at them. There were only around a dozen – all dark-haired and heavy featured, sitting in a hunched group and addressing the intrigued Hogwarts pupils with careful English. She saw Draco lean forwards to speak to the one everyone seemed obsessed with; Viktor Krum, a Quidditch player apparently. Another stereotype the school had all let themselves be dragged into – this fan club to a seventeen-year-old boy. The word pathetic came to mind.  
  
Slipping her gaze away from the slimy efforts of her second cousin, she found the other new students staring around at the splendour of the hall, and gabbling to one another in rapid Bulgarian. Occasionally they would ask a Slytherin a question in imprecise English, an exchange which often took some delay from both parties. A girl with thick dark hair smiled at Cyra from across the table. She didn't return the smile; the girl's expression faltered, and she quickly looked away.  
  
Everyone was eating around the hall. Over on the Hufflepuff table, Beauxbatons students were admiring the view and making more ready conversation with their hosts. A tall girl with long silvery blonde hair seemed to be the focus of much attention – and not just from the boys; girls too were looking enviously at her slim figure, and a couple couldn't resist to whisper malicious comments to their neighbours. The girl was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but Cyra had never had much time for beauty. It was little more than a façade – a mask to hide behind. If physical appearance was in the way, people forgot to take note of the person inside it.  
  
For the first time, she looked at the array of food on the table. There was the usual spread, with a few cultural dishes thrown in for hospitality. Cyra had little preference to what she ate – as long as she could satisfy hunger when necessary, she remained indifferent, and her appetite was small in any case. She toyed unenthusiastically with a soup ladle.  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
Cyra looked up abruptly. It was Amanda Thistle, a sullen girl in her class. Cyra could abide her – she didn't try to be friendly and didn't persist with trivial questions.  
  
"Of what?" she replied.  
  
Amanda motioned to the gathering with a vague hand. "The students," she said.  
  
"Oh. Fine," said Cyra, still fishing around with the spoon.  
  
"Fairly lacking in detail, Cyra," said Amanda. "Not interested this time?"  
  
"No," said Cyra flatly.  
  
"I see your dear cousin's taken the bait," continued the other girl, inclining her head in Malfoy's direction. "Is there anyone he doesn't suck up to?"  
  
"No," said Cyra. "Draco would flatter a housefly if he thought it might improve his social life."  
  
"Probably would," said Amanda. "His dad and yours still sworn enemies?"  
  
"Naturally," said Cyra. Amanda was just about the only person who could get away with a question like that. Amanda leaned back.  
  
"Reckon Sophia's landed her eye on anything yet?"  
  
She had switched topics, a remarkably clever tactic in Cyra's opinion. Even Amanda knew her limits. Cyra pursed her lips thoughtfully.  
  
"I can only see the smallest movements as of yet, but I'm sure the tart already has several lined up. There," she said, gesturing across the tables to where Beauxbatons and Hufflepuffs were communing. Amanda followed her gaze and through the heads saw the bright face of the girl in question, laughing excessively at a comment one boy next to her had just made.  
  
"Slut," said Amanda.  
  
"Quite," agreed Cyra, with little feeling.  
  
"Not like you or me, eh Cyra?" mused Amanda. Cyra didn't reply.  
  
Amanda saw that question time was over, and helped herself to some food, turning her back on Cyra, who barely noticed the drop in conversation. Amanda, probably not entirely accidentally, had brought a lot of things to mind. Cyra speared a piece of meat with her fork, and allowed herself to withdraw from the rest of the world.  
  
Her father and Lucius Malfoy. Cousins, hating each other, brought up in entirely different worlds. The reason her name was not, like Draco's, that of Malfoy. It was now two generations ago, but her grandfather, Ascifus, had disowned himself from his family at the age of eighteen. Driven by hate at the malicious nature of his relations, he had severed the bonds as soon as possible – leaving himself with little money and nowhere to go. With a new name he had given himself, he left his mother, father and brother – Malfoy's grandfather – to the past and denied their help, although they had offered him little.  
  
He had grown up, and started a family of his own –Cyra's father, Niro, being the first-born son of the liberated title. But it was him that drew them back together again. He built on what his own father had struggled for, and the name Dracado grew in respect and prestige. But with this came the interlocking of the two sides; Malfoy, a long established title, was well known in the magical society, a black name that nonetheless drew success relentlessly. Both families grew, the names of Malfoy and Dracado side by side as the most recent additions were born. Draco, the only son of Lucius, was born after the arrivals of Niro's children – the eldest daughter Alacia, a son Diran and their younger sister Afsi all making an appearance beforehand. But amidst what was otherwise a rosy scenario for their muggle mother, a trait of the old blood was revealed in Niro. Under suspicious circumstances, a perfect marriage was blemished by the arrival of Cyra – the irreversible consequence of Niro's affair with a fellow witch, who took no responsibility for her tiny daughter and disappeared, leaving only Cyra as the last daughter of Dracado.  
  
Niro's wife reluctantly agreed to treat Cyra as her own, but the girl never believed the story; Niro was dismayed to recognise that the few areas in which Cyra didn't resemble her mother were filled by the Malfoy blood from her father's side. It was clear to everyone that Cyra was not the same as her siblings. When Cassie, Niro's wife, died a year after Alacia joined Hogwarts, Cyra remained unaffected, despite the tears of her brother and sisters. She was an outsider even to her family. She didn't belong. To her father she was a Malfoy, but to the Malfoys themselves she was the child of a traitor; her brother and sisters recoiled from her, because they knew she was different, and Cassie had only ever seen her as a threat. To her father she presented a problem, as she was a mark of his dark roots. Generally, her relations avoided her.  
  
Cyra rather liked it this way. If you weren't wrapped with other people, you could observe them from afar. This gave you much more control and manipulation.  
  
Suddenly, like a pin to her balloon of thoughts, a face from further down the table jolted her back into reality. She glared at the interruption, and met her match.  
  
Two pitch black eyes were regarding her from their position amongst the other Durmstrang students, set deep in a face lined with heavy black features, the eyebrows resting on the forehead like the thick strokes of a cartoonist. The pronounced nose wasn't overly large, but it rose out of the face like a small mountain in a field might; the skin was dark like dirty sand and the thin lips were pinched, as though their creator had been economising. Dark brown hair sat on top like a comical wig – it seemed ragged and uncared for, as if the wearer had forgotten it was there. From the folds of his blood red robes, the Durmstrang boy sat and studied her unblinkingly: his gaze impartial, yet somehow demanding.  
  
No one had ever beat Cyra for staring. She alone had a glare that could unsettle a tomb. But now, with this boy staring so intensely and yet so passively at her, Cyra felt the upper hand slip from her grasp. She held on determinedly. He blinked, once or twice, but the effect was even more unnerving than stillness. She glared, but there was barely any force behind it. He gazed without challenge. She held on for one last second. And blinked.  
  
Looking away, Cyra busied herself with arranging some food on her plate, furious to be beaten. Her eyes screamed for fluids. Water filmed over. Enraged, Cyra beat spoonfuls of potatoes onto her plate, the sharp chink of the metal unnoticed against the background volume of noise. Moisture glazed across her eyes, blurring her vision. She forced herself into calm. All around, people were talking, bickering, laughing in their pointless ways. Cyra tried to block them out.  
  
After about five minutes, she dared a look towards the other end of the table. The boy had turned away. He was calmly surveying other conversations. Cyra, despite his inattention, looked away immediately, and didn't give him another chance to catch her out. Knives and forks clattered in the background. In time, the staff table was filled, as the seats next to the heads of the foreign schools were taken up by Bartemius Crouch and Ludo Bagman. Dumbledore had resumed his seat after his initial welcome and was now deep in conversation with various people around him. The feeling was apprehensive and excited. But against the babble of noise and joviality whilst the rest of the school enjoyed the feast, Cyra couldn't quite relax again and sat in silence for the evening: strangely disinterested in the atmosphere around her, and taking care never to place her eyes in the direction of the unspeaking boy from Durmstrang. 


	5. The Triwizard Tournament

1 Chapter 5  
  
Later that night, under a thick blanket of dark sky, Cyra suffered another sleepless night. She always got these; she could never, and had never, maintained regular sleeping patterns. When her brain had a lot to think about, it refused to let her rest. This was the case now.  
  
The dormitory was asleep, the slow breathing of contented people rising up from the blankets like a rhythmic lullaby. The school slept. The teachers slept. The foreign pupils, greeted warmly into their new environment, slept.  
  
Cyra did not sleep. Sometimes it wasn't that she had something specific to think about, it was just that she had thoughts – thoughts that chased each other round her head, and appeared for a second as a wisp of an idea, before dissolving immediately into the patchwork backdrop of her memory. So many thoughts and past experiences were plastered onto this – the bottomless hole, the cavity of her mind; and she never forgot them, they never escaped once she had hold of them. But they grew harder and harder to distinguish from one another, until she couldn't tell them apart – meaningless, like the deciphering of an impossible code. At times like this, when the rest of the world was dark and it was just her own company, an idea could seem so real it almost had form, like a person standing beside her. But thoughts came and went as they pleased, and all Cyra could do when her brain wanted to sift through it all, was sit and be satisfied with flowing stream of images and memories rolling over and over in her head.  
  
Tonight she stood by the window. The moon hung in the air as a silvery orb, illuminating the clouds that congealed around it. A faint glow bathed the windowsill. Soft snores filled the room. Cyra stood, and let the continuous mass run though her head, like the gathering of clouds before a storm. The air was very peaceful, the place very calm. Cyra shut off her eyes from the objects in front of her, and became oblivious to the world.  
  
The Tournament was officially open. She wondered how many underage hopefuls would attempt to submit their name under the cover of dark. Not many would have the nerve, she thought. The challenge was too sudden, the possibility had only presented itself tonight; few, she expected, would have the daring to accomplish a task like that without having at least a few days to think about it. Briefly she wondered why she cared so little for the Tournament, when it had set the rest of the school buzzing with anticipation. She knew she regarded her fellow pupils as little more than sheep, but strong feelings within the school could usually provoke some response from her. She did, she supposed, have some emotions after all. But not about this. The whole affair seemed to have passed her by like a soundless stream of events viewed from behind an impartial pane of glass. Something else was playing on her mind.  
  
Dumbledore's speeches had come and gone, the rules for entering had been lain out; the casket had emerged, and from in side it, the fabled Goblet of Fire – and yet still Cyra found herself disengaged from it all. Though this might seem like her usual approach to all things, it was not. Cyra only ever appeared disinterested, and even the event itself didn't engross her, the people involved would. She would normally just as interested in other people's reactions as they themselves were about the situation in question. But recent happenings stirred not even the tiniest flutter of emotion in her. She had a horrible sense that she wasn't controlling her own feelings this time. The feast – such a prime chance to observe the castle's other inhabitants – had slipped by unnoticed, and now she could remember barely anything from it. There was also a feast set for tomorrow night. The food would seem bland and repetitive after tonight's display.  
  
Suddenly, through her thoughts, interrupting like it had done before, the face of the silent boy pierced her memory. The two eyes, deep set in their swarthy skin, stared at her inside her mind, unrelenting. Cyra felt unnerved by their presence. She didn't appreciate this feeling. It was the wrong way round. She was meant to be the unnerving one, not the other person. But his steady gaze injected her with restless unease. She felt obstinately that something must be done. She would find out his name, from afar – you must never ask a subject directly, that lost effect. She would find out everything about him, and learn to deal with this unsettling experience. She would start tomorrow.  
  
She felt glad when the string of thoughts tugged the eyes of the boy away and onto another memory. She wasn't at all comfortable with the feeling she had been left with. Outside, clouds rolled over the moon. Someone close by turned in their bed.  
  
Another image came to her – a memory from a time last year: a face, and a person. He had been a very…interesting experience. More than that. He had left her with more mixed emotions than anyone else ever had. She didn't mind this thought. At first she had tried to ignore thinking about him, but in time, as the memories had persisted, she stopped all retaliation. However fast thoughts might be swimming through her brain, this one would always linger for a much longer time; and she let it stay there, drifting through as a lazy river might, avoiding the rapid currents that thundered past. The moon was completely covered by now. Images rested in her mind, peacefully repeating themselves with idle content.  
  
In time she went and lay on her bed. Covers pulled over out of habit, Cyra closed her eyes. The outside world was shut off, soft noises intruding her ears only now and again. She could no longer see a thing beyond her eyelids, but within the confines of her head the large expanse of thought stretched out before her. Engulfing the empty space, memories of him were unfolding. And eventually, when her mind fell into sleep, the conscious images joined seamlessly with the finely woven fabric of dreams.  
  
*  
  
If the tide of students flocking outside the Great Hall next morning was anything to go by, Cyra's guess at who risked a night-time visit was correct. What seemed like the whole school had accumulated around the Goblet, set dead centre on the floor of the Entrance Hall. As Cyra emerged from the dungeons she could see already that the interest in this Tournament was doing nothing but grow. Groups of people clustered round the edges, fringing just outside the thin golden line that traced a ten-foot boundary around the Goblet, all of them careful not to overstep it. Despite the clamour in the Hall, there seemed to be constant movement – no sooner would one person disappear into the Great Hall for breakfast than another would take their place. Everyone was eyeing the Goblet with excitement, their eyes dancing as though it was a sacred monument; conversations were ceaseless and echoed throughout the Hall, and the air seemed to be a constant babble of whispers.  
  
Cyra felt a stab of the old contempt, and held it close to her mind, relishing it. A wooden cup that danced with blue and white flames, and still they treated it with awe. They would be satisfied with anything if it looked mildly impressive. Cyra walked unnoticed from the dungeon entrance and crossed to the marble staircase, where already people were descending to replace those that had gone into the Hall. As she neared the banister she heard an eager,  
  
"Anyone put their name in yet?"  
  
To be replied with,  
  
"All the Durmstrang lot. But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet," from a nearby girl.  
  
Cyra slid her vision in the direction of the exchange. She vaguely recognised the first speaker: a lanky redhead from the year below. Probably a Weasley; the school was always crawling with them. His friend behind him spoke up, voicing what Cyra had already suspected.  
  
"Bet some of them put in last night after we'd all gone to bed," he said; and as he came further down the staircase he came further into view. Cyra would recognise him a mile off, anyone would. Famous Harry Potter – still looking, in her opinion, exactly the same as when he first turned up to be Sorted. His unkempt black hair sat awkwardly on top of his head, his round- framed glasses were so childish. Cyra moved an unimpressed gaze to the other side of the hall and walked past.  
  
But just as she was reaching the Great Hall, excited whispers behind her made her stop a few paces from the doors. Turning, she saw the Weasley twins and their friend, bounding eagerly down the stairs. Their conversation as they drew level with Harry and his two friends (the brown- haired girl was also with them) was evidently meant to be low-key, but their spirits were high and Cyra was an expert in any case.  
  
"Done it," said the first twin, and Cyra was certain by his boisterous manner that he was Fred, the louder of the two.  
  
"What?" said their brother stupidly. Evidently intelligence wasn't a part of this family.  
  
"The Ageing Potion, dungbrains."  
  
Cyra settled herself for a longer wait than she first expected. This could prove interesting.  
  
"One drop each," said the other twin, clearly brimming over with excitement. "We only need to be a few months older."  
  
"We're going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," explained their friend.  
  
The brown-haired friend of Harry spoke up with warning. "I'm not sure this is going to work, you know. I'm sure Dumbledore would have thought of this."  
  
Now Cyra remembered her, reprimanding as the others ignored her. Hermione Granger, or something – a studious girl in the fourth year, apparently passing practically every exam with top marks. Cyra hadn't much time for people who found their consolation in books and lessons. She considered real intelligence as a very diverse thing, and high exam marks wasn't one of them.  
  
The conversation had moved on; the twins and their friend, excited and driven by adrenaline, had moved to the edge of the circle; the eyes of everyone were upon them, the anticipation falling like a blanket of silence on the expectant crowd. Fred walked right up to the edge of the line, and stood there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. There were three seconds of complete concentration, before he took a deep breath and stepped over the line.  
  
Everyone remembered to breathe again, and George, thinking it had worked, gave a triumphant whoop and sprang in to join his brother. There was a split second of success, but almost instantly there came a sizzling sound, and the twins were hurled from the circle with such painful speed that Cyra had to stand aside to avoid collision. They landed sharply, and bounced once or twice. Cyra looked on with rare amusement, and actually laughed when the pair stood up and found themselves sprout long white beards. She didn't usually go for clown antics, but she couldn't resist a little snigger when they brushed themselves down and discovered their chins burdened with several feet of facial hair.  
  
"I did warn you," said a deep, amused voice, and all eyes turned to see the headmaster emerging from the Great Hall.  
  
In one movement Cyra had stepped into the background. She could do without Dumbledore's attention, however brief. He made her very uncomfortable, like a patient who makes the doctor feel as though he is the one under examination. As his tall frame made a path towards the Weasley twins, Cyra escaped into the bustle of the Great Hall.  
  
Halloween had transformed the open cheer of the expansive hall into a flickering waltz of shadows; carved pumpkins leered from every corner and bats screeched through the rafters. Cyra went and took a vacant seat on the Slytherin table, helping herself to a slice of toast. Shortly after her, Harry and his friends appeared, unaccompanied by either the twins or their friend, and made for the Gryffindor table. Cyra watched them lazily from her seat at the Slytherin table, as they began talking to another two boys from their class. Suddenly there came cheering from beyond the doors: Cyra saw the host of Gryffindors turn in their seats, and next second a sixth- year girl entered, grinning with happy embarrassment.  
  
Angelina Johnson, Cyra realised, as the tall black girl took up a place next to the small crowd of fourth years. She recognised her from Quidditch matches – the ones she could be bothered to attend. From what Cyra could gather from afar, she had just entered herself into the Goblet. The girl certainly had talent on a broomstick, but if an entire school were to put their hopes in you, Cyra felt a certain degree of arrogance was necessary for any kind of success. But good luck to her, she thought vaguely, as the gathering on the far table continued to chatter excitedly. She wondered abruptly what on earth had got into her. From scorning every individual in the school she had suddenly begun extending her best wishes to them. This Tournament seemed more trouble than it was worth. She looked down and saw she'd forgotten to put anything on her toast.  
  
Just as she was reaching absently for the knife, a snide voice sounded from down the table.  
  
"Not hungry, Dracado?"  
  
Cyra looked up, and automatically switched a cold glare onto her face. Pansy Parkinson, an ugly girl from the year below, was sitting with her usual gang of Slytherin girls. On the other side of the table Cyra saw Draco and his cronies; his eyes were narrowed and the thin smile on his lips was only supported by the fact it wasn't him addressing Cyra.  
  
"Hungry enough," replied Cyra. "Thank you for noticing."  
  
Pansy persisted.  
  
"Entering the Tournament? I hear the death rates always been successful in previous years. It could do you some good." The gang around her chuckled maliciously.  
  
Cyra took care not to take her eyes off the fourth-year girl, and set the knife down with a chink. "It's not my business if some people want to display their weak ability in front of a thousand people," she said calmly.  
  
"Speak for yourself," said Pansy nastily. Cyra could see she really wanted to score some points on this one. She could also see her cousin sitting opposite.  
  
"I will," said Cyra graciously. "Although some people may have others do the talking for them…" she moved her gaze very deliberately towards Malfoy, who flinched slightly "…on account of their own cowardice, I prefer to fight my own battles."  
  
Pansy attempted a smile, which looked fairly painful, and didn't reply. Cyra maintained eye contact, much to Pansy's discomfort. Opposite the gang of Slytherin girls, Malfoy looked a little less self-assured.  
  
"Come on," he muttered to Crabbe and Goyle, getting up to leave, but Cyra was faster.  
  
"Don't worry about it," she said, standing up and moving briefly in his direction. "I was already going." She didn't extend her gaze to Pansy, who was still seated and looking unattractively disgruntled, but turned on her heel and vanished from the Hall.  
  
Pansy always delighted in being unpleasant to Cyra, not least when Draco was in the vicinity. Cyra rarely responded with much more than a steely gaze and a few remarks. She stepped out of the Great Hall feeling glad that she at least hadn't lost her interest in disturbing people. The problem with Pansy was that with every defeat she only became more determined that she would succeed next time. That had to be the fifth time this term alone she had tried to annoy Cyra, and despite consistently coming off worse she refused to give in. Cyra wasn't even bothered. Pansy was a precocious upstart from the year below and evidently had a crush on her second cousin. Cyra didn't see what there was to be bothered about.  
  
The sounds of breakfast receded behind her as Cyra made her way down the narrow passages of the dungeons. She felt the air – cold already with the end of October – grow chillier as the corridor in front of her continued. Today was Saturday, and she had the whole day before the feast. She had a fair idea how best to occupy her time. Taking the swiftest route to the common room, she slipped in behind the stone wall and crossed the room without anyone taking the slightest notice. She went to the dormitory, collected the necessary things in her bag and went out again. Once outside she slung the bag over her shoulder and started up the warren of passages, passing people in twos and threes. On reaching the Entrance Hall she walked past the Goblet and its golden ring, climbed the marble staircase to the landing and then headed for the library. 


	6. Strange meetings, strange people

Chapter 7  
  
She woke on Sunday to find she had overslept. Cyra hated over-sleeping – it set her out of routine and usually was as a result of something else being wrong in her life. She didn't even bother to recognise the offender this time: she knew exactly who was the problem and she didn't feel like addressing it.  
  
Dressing, she left the dormitory and wandered around the castle for a bit, but by lunchtime the lack of purpose unnerved her too much, and she returned to her room to find something to better occupy her time. Books and parchment and writing materials were crammed in her case, standing ready for a rainy day, or one where the theories of the magical universe weren't enough to interest her. She tossed them aside; words and writing didn't seem appealing today. Delving to the bottom, she pulled out a large bundle wrapped in black linen, and pulling at the cord that bound it, let the contents fall onto the bed. Rough-ended sheets of yellowed cartridge paper lay there, and on top of them a collection of charcoal, pencils, pens and inks. Cyra regarded the pile as one might a long-lost relation. It had been a long time since she'd drawn anything.  
  
Silently, she wrapped it all back up again and slipped it under her arm. Even if people wondered what the black bundle was, she doubted that they'd ask. She left the dormitory and the common room behind, and upon reaching the Entrance Hall mounted what would be the first of a long succession of stairs. Not one other person in the school could know where she was going – no one else had been aware of it before. It wasn't a secret annexe, but merely a place left to dust and decay, concealed since Cyra had discovered it. This was where she left her thoughts, high above the boundaries of the castle, level with the sky. This room was a safe to her secrets, a confidant of stone walls and small windows. And as far as she knew, no one else knew anything about it. That's how she wanted it to stay. Her feelings had leaked into the damp air of the room, and hung about the walls like posters of her life. Six cold walls and an untended roof had in effect become her centre – the heart and emotions that Cyra apparently didn't possess: more like a real person than anything else people saw of her. This room was no man's land but her's. It wasn't school, it wasn't home. But it belonged to her. Finders Keepers.  
  
Outside, the feeble sun pushed through the grey clouds, and shrank away into the black shadow of the night. How long she sat up in that freezing room Cyra didn't know, but it was dark when she returned and the castle was silent. Out of the windows sparked the stars, glittering and shining in the pale of the moon: and sighing through the turrets, so breathless you could barely hear it, the northern winds whispered. The dormitory was dark, its inhabitants asleep. Cyra slipped into bed but it was well past midnight when sleep overtook her. In the darkness, the face and words of Levir returned to her and she lay uncomfortably on the sheets. The last thoughts she had were his words, "Then maybe I will see you again…"  
  
Sleep, when it came, was sporadic and uneasy, and laced with reluctance at the coming days.  
  
*  
  
The next day she managed to wake in time for the school day, and arrived at her first lesson with a few minutes to spare. Arithmancy was difficult first thing on a Monday morning, but Cyra accepted challenges and as soon as she geared up her brain she was completing the set questions in half the time of everyone else. Professor Vector gave her some extra problems and left her alone – most teachers were wary of bringing Cyra any sort of limelight within the class. Potions and Transfiguration completed the day up until lunch, and afterwards she endured a gruelling session in Defence Against the Dark Arts with Moody, who seemed not to have grasp the fact that she was best left unspoken to.  
  
The rest of the week raced by, until it was Friday, and Cyra had seen nothing more of the Durmstrang boy since they last spoke. (She was still loath to call him Levir because she considered him rude and untrustworthy). She was glad when the classroom hours were up and she could retreat to her own thoughts. On a dreary Friday afternoon the October winds batted against the windows and howled angrily. Cyra intended at first to return to the dormitory, but after catching a glimpse of Sarina doing likewise, she changed her mind and headed for the library instead. Her apparation notes were still in her bag, untouched since a week ago and messily thrown together. Entering the library she saw that the table she had used before was empty, and sat down to work there. She took out a book, but didn't open it immediately, and instead began rewriting her notes into readable text.  
  
There were few other people in the library and Cyra was glad for her out of the way position, because Madam Pince found reason to be suspicious for anything, and Cyra wouldn't be surprised to get kicked out on grounds of being the only one in there. She put her head down and avoided eye contact with the occasional straggle of students that wandered past.  
  
She was onto the final paragraph of the rewrite when a shadow fell over her. Immersed in her work, she took a few moments to realise something was there, but when she did, her head shot up irritably.  
  
"What do you want…" she began, and stopped.  
  
Levir Tznevski stood there, his black hair framing his face like the stray ends from a ball of string.  
  
"Hello," he said. Cyra's mouth stiffened instinctively.  
  
"Hello."  
  
Automatically she reached out to cover her work, but he was too quick.  
  
"This looks intriguing," he said, bending down to get a better view.  
  
"It isn't," said Cyra shortly, snatching it away from him and throwing it into her bag. His eyes narrowed with amusement and he smiled.  
  
"Whatever it is, you seem very keen to hide it." Cyra shrugged in a manner that very much discouraged conversation.  
  
"Perhaps that's just you thinking like that."  
  
He smiled even more. "Perhaps."  
  
Cyra averted her attention to her bag, intending to leave, but Levir had already taken the seat opposite. He waited for her to face him again. She tried to look uncaring.  
  
"So – you alvays seem keen to be rid off me, Cyra."  
  
She glared. "Oh?"  
  
"Well, I am here for a year, no matter vether I am the champion or not, and I see making friends as therefore being rather…essential."  
  
"I'm not a charity case."  
  
He smiled even more. "Obviously."  
  
Cyra was a little put out. "Why are you targeting me?" she said hotly. "Surely there's hundreds of others you could have chosen. Just because I don't hang around in a group and you don't seem to give anyone else a thought."  
  
"Strange as it may seem," said Levir, the smile dropping, "I haff not been targeting you exclusiffly. It was mere coincidence ve kept meeting; however, I have noticed Cyra, that to acquaint myself vith you may not be without gain."  
  
The vibes Cyra was giving off was frosting the windows. "Really?"  
  
Levir seemed as a gentleman in the lion's den. "Indeed," he said courteously. "You are, if I may say, quite unlike the other girls in your class."  
  
"How original," said Cyra icily.  
  
"I mean you are not as trivial as them."  
  
"How observant of you."  
  
"Do not take offence, Cyra."  
  
"I'll try."  
  
At her flat tone, Levir finally gave up.  
  
"You know," he said, his pleasant manner vanishing in a flash, "you are the most trying person."  
  
Cyra smiled grimly. "Thank you."  
  
A less controlled side of Levir was now apparent as he beat his knuckles on the table. "I am trying to be nice…"  
  
"Please," said Cyra," don't let me keep you if it's such an effort."  
  
"I did not mean it like that –"  
  
"Oh. I do apologise."  
  
Something remarkably like a snarl threatened on Levir's face. "I am not entirely sure vy you are –"  
  
"Why I'm what? Acting like this? I hate to disappoint you but this is how I normally act."  
  
Levir opened his mouth angrily, thought better of it, and forced a smile onto his face.  
  
"This looks interesting," he said woodenly, picking up the book on the tabletop and sliding it towards him. "Such a large library you haff here. You read much do you?"  
  
Cyra could see he was putting every effort into controlling his temper. It looked painful. She said nothing, but gave him a look that told him she knew exactly what he was up to, and retrieved her notes from her bag.  
  
"Vot is that?" inquired Levir politely.  
  
"Something not concerning you," said Cyra flatly, without looking up. There was a silence, as Levir considered his next sentence.  
  
"A…personal project?" he ventured, at length.  
  
"Isn't everything?"  
  
"I meant is it an individual thing outside the classroom?"  
  
Cyra looked up snappily. "Well considering I have been sitting here taking notes on my own – or would be if you left me alone – I have to say that yes, this is an individual-outside-the-classroom sort of thing. Now can I finish it. Please."  
  
Levir noted the lack of question mark and wisely shut up for a few minutes. Cyra finished the remaining notes very quickly but her irritation at Levir increased. He obviously wasn't going to go away. She completed the notes and folded them into her bag. He was still there.  
  
"Look, what is it you want?" she snapped, fastening her bag aggressively.  
  
Levir gave another courteous smile, but under the pleasantries the strain of calm was showing. "I haff told you," he said. "You seem more interesting than the others in your class. I merely wanted to talk to you."  
  
"Yes, and now you have," said Cyra, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder.  
  
"For only a little while."  
  
"If you wanted specified time slots you should have made a booking," she replied tartly, returning the book to its shelf and sweeping down the aisle. Levir followed her. Cyra was walking very speedily. He had to do a kind of hop skip to keep up with her.  
  
"You have a natural tongue for sarcasm," he said scathingly. They were at the library doors.  
  
"Once again, I thank you," she said, and stomped out.  
  
She swung the door behind her with such force that Levir had to leap out of the way. She was halfway down the corridor when there was a loud thud and a rapid stream of incoherent curses behind her. She wheeled round. Levir was just outside the doors, clutching at his face. The door had hit him in the nose.  
  
"You…bitch," he managed, groping at his nose and jumping on the spot in agony. "Complete…bitch." There followed several unidentifiable words which Cyra could only assume were Bulgarian translations of the same thing. From between his fingers blood was seeping out. "Oh…fuck," he moaned, expressing himself in a way that is universally understood. "Stupid…cow…"  
  
Cyra wavered on the spot for a few seconds, unsure of whether or not to help him. He continued to hop on the spot. A piercing voice suddenly sounded from in the library.  
  
"What's going on out there?" There were rapid footsteps.  
  
Cyra made a quick decision. The last thing she needed was Madam Pince.  
  
"Come on," she hissed, finding her feet had carried her to Levir, and were continuing down the corridor, chivvying him out of the way. "Come on, you don't want her poking around."  
  
Levir spat foreign insults at her through his splayed hands, but allowed himself to be guided along the passages.  
  
"Stupid whore," he growled, as they lumbered down some stairs.  
  
"Well done," drawled Cyra, "you've learnt every English insult. Now come on."  
  
She led him, not entirely sure why she was doing so, through the mazes of corridors until they reached the hospital wing. They had left a trail of blood flecking the floor behind them. With one hand Cyra steered Levir, who had buried his face into his palms, and with the other she pushed open the door. It was awkward, as Levir was taller than her and heavily built, but somehow she forced the pair of them into the wing at the same time. No one was in there.  
  
Realising they'd stopped moving, Levir looked up for the first time, and seeing where they were, started angrily.  
  
"Vy haff you brought me here?" he demanded.  
  
"Best place," said Cyra. "I'm not seeing to you."  
  
"English bitch," he snarled, and disappeared back into his hands. Cyra cast him a sideways glance.  
  
"Go with your robes, that will," she muttered.  
  
Madam Pomfrey came bustling down the rows of beds.  
  
"What's happened here?" she said impatiently. "I've already seen to three burns from Bubotuber puss, two others from some Care of Magical Creatures monstrosity and four separate incidents of fighting with curses. Cauliflower boils all over their faces and one boy had managed to rearrange his limbs. This had better not be serious."  
  
"It isn't," reassured Cyra. "It's just a bloody nose."  
  
"Just!" exclaimed Levir. "This is my nose here!"  
  
"Quiet boy," snapped Madam Pomfrey, and went to move his hands from his face. She had to drag them away. "Let me see, let me see," she muttered. "Ah yes, I see. Walked into a door was it?"  
  
"Exactly that," said Cyra.  
  
"You pushed it in my face!" shouted Levir furiously.  
  
"Be quiet boy," said Madam Pomfrey. "You're getting yourself worked up." She picked up something from a table behind her.  
  
"I am not –"  
  
"Hold still."  
  
"Ow!"  
  
The matron performed some very speedy ailment that sent Levir reeling off in pain again.  
  
"Does everything in this school haff to be so painful?" he groaned, doubled up around his knees.  
  
"Most of the time," said Madam Pomfrey grimly. She turned to Cyra. "It's nothing serious – nothing broken. But you might want to get him cleaned up. He's already spotted this floor a nice scarlet. Doesn't require anything magical – soap and water will do the trick. I have other things to see to."  
  
She returned to her office at the far end, and slammed the door. Cyra glanced round resignedly.  
  
"Come on," she said sharply, grabbing a handful of Levir's robes and dragging him to his feet. "Apparently I have to clean you up."  
  
"I can do that myself," protested Levir, stumbling along behind her.  
  
"After that display in there? You couldn't even wet the flannel."  
  
She led the way to the nearest bathroom, throwing occasional comments back in Levir's direction, who was winding his way down the corridors behind her, swaying like a drunk man and swearing loudly. She caught a venomous "bitch" every two or three minutes.  
  
"Surely one of us shouldn't be in here," complained Levir, as they reached the bathroom.  
  
"Oh shut up," snapped Cyra, pushing him inside. "No one's going to say any different."  
  
She leaned him against the nearest sink and collected some toilet paper from a cubicle. Levir looked at her in horror as she ran it under the cold tap.  
  
"You are going to clean me vith that?"  
  
Cyra glared at him. "Have a better idea, do you?"  
  
"No," he answered moodily.  
  
"Good, then hold still."  
  
"Vait, vot are you…argh!"  
  
He recoiled under the damp tissue, twisting to get out of the way. Cyra was irritated, and probably a little more forceful than needs be.  
  
"Hold still!"  
  
"Ow! You hurt more than the matron –"  
  
"For god's sake…"  
  
"Stop it!"  
  
"You're acting like a kid."  
  
"You smashed in my face!"  
  
"The door hit you. I think you're overreacting."  
  
"You vern't the one getting hurt by it."  
  
"No one hurts that much. It was wood, not a death-ridden curse shot by Voldemort."  
  
Through his anger, Levir stared at her amazed. Cyra stood confused for a second, and then scornful. "What…? Oh – I said the name. Wonderful. Yes, everyone run off and hide. I said the name, Voldemort. Put it in the headlines."  
  
Levir's amazement was replaced by intolerance.  
  
"You shouldn't take it so lightly," he lectured. "It wasn't something to joke about."  
  
Cyra was thrown off-balance again. "And?" she said challengingly. "I wasn't joking, just said the name, that's all. Here – you've still got blood on your cheek."  
  
Levir was unrelenting. "You shouldn't take it so lightly," he repeated, dodging her hand. "People died. It was a serious event."  
  
Cyra stepped back, annoyed. "I know," she snapped. "I don't know why you're treating the name like such a big issue though, that's all."  
  
They both glared at each other.  
  
"It's complicated," said Levir. It was Cyra's turn to be unimpressed.  
  
"People only say that to avoid the truth," she said flatly. He didn't reply immediately.  
  
"You're right," he said eventually. "Complicated isn't the word. But in any case, the years of the Dark Lord were black, and it doesn't do to forget the dangers."  
  
"Lighten up," said Cyra, more bewildered than she liked to admit. This time Levir did not reply. He gingerly touched his nose.  
  
"I think it is better. Thank you."  
  
Cyra nodded. "It's okay. Maybe you won't follow me next time."  
  
Levir gave a wry smile. "I did not know English girls were so vicious."  
  
"I don't think we're all like that."  
  
"I hope not."  
  
It was strange as they left the room, because there was almost an unspoken parley between them, and an agreement for each to abide the other, for the time being. Cyra walked without aim for a time, and it was a while before she realised that Levir was following her lead. He was striding along with his head buried in his chest, as though speculating, and didn't notice when she stopped. Cyra looked around. They were at the top of the marble staircase.  
  
"Sorry, I didn't realise –" she began, but broke off as Levir walked straight into her. His head jerked up on collision.  
  
"Sorry," he said, "sorry, I didn't see you –"  
  
"No, no it's my fault, I just stopped in the middle –"  
  
They both stopped in mid-sentence. Cyra was embarrassed, much to her annoyance, but could tell Levir felt the same.  
  
"So," he said aimlessly. "Vot har we doing here?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," said Cyra. "I…I didn't realise you were following me. I wasn't thinking where I was going…"  
  
A faint tinge was coming into Levir's face. "Sorry. I wasn't meaning to follow you – I just didn't think."  
  
Cyra was surprised to hear herself say, "No, that's fine."  
  
There was an unwelcome silence. It seemed to have been saving itself up for a time when it was least needed. Both parties, alien to small talk, smiled blankly and prayed the other would say something.  
  
"So, when do –"  
  
"I suppose –"  
  
They both burst out talking at the same time. And stopped.  
  
"No, you say it –"  
  
"No, you first –"  
  
And then repeated it.  
  
"Tomorrow is Saturday," said Levir, after he was fairly certain Cyra wouldn't burst into speech as well.  
  
"I'm aware of that," replied Cyra, vaguely aware she used to add sarcasm to a line like that. Levir smiled shiftily.  
  
"The weekends are proving a trial; our day is free like yours but everyone else seems at home. I wonder, would you meet me in the morning?"  
  
"Where?" said Cyra guardedly. "I'm not a great fan of the Great Hall – public engagements aren't my style."  
  
"Then there are two of us made like that."  
  
"I think the phrase is 'that makes two of us'."  
  
"Ah. Vell, how about here – the bottom of the staircase, at least – after breakfast."  
  
"I eat early," warned Cyra.  
  
"I'm not a great sleeper either," said Levir, in what Cyra felt was a very abstract response. "About eight?"  
  
Cyra thought for a moment. She had little else planned.  
  
"Alright," she agreed at length. "Eight o'clock tomorrow. Here."  
  
"At the bottom of these stairs."  
  
"How ironic." She smiled.  
  
"Indeed," replied Levir, "the first place we met." The comment was not flirtatious, but stating a fact; Cyra was just astounded she hadn't had to explain the concept of irony to a foreigner. Not for the first time, she had doubts about this being his first trip to Britain.  
  
"Eight o clock," she said again, and descended the stairs slightly awkwardly. Levir nodded, and followed a little way behind, unspeaking. They crossed the Entrance Hall a small distance apart, and when he disappeared out of the doors and over the lawn to the ship, she turned left down to the dungeons.  
  
A strange voice in the back of her head seemed with the vague notion that the few hours until eight the next morning were her last ones of freedom; but the voice was barely more than a whisper and she dismissed it without thought. She had arranged to meet someone. She hadn't done that for years – and the last time was hardly the same circumstances. This was new territory. There may have been doubt in her mind, and apprehension at inviting another person into her life – but all she could hear, or at least all that she allowed herself to hear, were the were the little possibilities tomorrow could bring, running over and over in her mind. 


End file.
